


She knows

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After Season 8, Bran Stark is King in the North, F/M, Fix-It, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, Secret Marriage, Short & Sweet, except Jaime is alive because I said so, jaime is slightly possessive but Brienne has no self-preservation instincts, sorry about that I don’t like it either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Brienne is full of virtue; Jaime is full of angst.They got married anyway.... and sort of ... didn’t tell anyone?
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 13
Kudos: 123





	She knows

**Author's Note:**

> Written 07 may 2020.

The road was barren, the people hard, the quest pointless.

Of course Brienne volunteered.

Jaime, much offended, sat back in his chair. He listened to Tyrion explain details, with occasional interruptions from the vacant and mystical three-eyed King of ... whatever. 

Intermittently he drilled his hand on the armrest, wishing he had the other hand back as well, purely so he could tie a knot around Brienne and keep her safe. Even if she was to be safe in boring, drafty, tediously-proper Winterfell, surrounded by boring, tediously-proper Starks.

Once freed of the meeting, she left the room with her quickest stride.

As if that would get rid of him. “Wench.”

“Ser Jaime.” Not breaking pace.

“I’d like a word with you, before you go.”

“We are speaking now.”

“You know that isn’t what I—”

“I am first going to the armory and then to the stables. You may continue to speak to me as I do these things.”

He grabbed her by the arm; she shook him off. 

“Don’t,” she said.

“Stay,” said Jaime. “Let someone else risk their neck traipsing around in open country, being set on by murderous thugs. You don’t need to chase down every single idiotic—”

He’d said the wrong thing, he saw that on her face, and so he shut his mouth. Never let it be said that a Lannister couldn’t learn from experience.

Jaime was considering grimly that the last time he’d managed to be quiet around Brienne was when his hand was cut off — and she herself spoke. 

For a moment he was grateful for the interruption: then he paid attention to what she was saying. 

“You don’t have the right to stop me,” she had said.

Jaime let go of her arm — why had he kept touching her? He should have stopped touching her — and attempted to order his thoughts. “I’m not entirely sure that is true,” he said.

“It is true,” said Brienne. “I need to make my way to the armory, ser. You will kindly let me go.”

“I can hardly prevent you, even if I cling to your back like a turtle with its shell; you’re a strapping big wench, you’d have no trouble carrying me there.” He paused. “You could carry me with you deep into the frozen north, if you’ve a mind to do it.”

“Jaime.”

“Don’t do this,” he said: and then, rather desperately: “You can’t leave. I won’t allow it. Not  _ again .” _

“I will follow my duty,” she said, “regardless of ... regardless. Now step back and let me go.”

And Jaime stepped back; he let her go.

  
  
  


“Stubborn,” said Jaime, “and idealistic ... and this is your fault, you know, Tyrion. If you’d only held your traitor’s tongue, Brienne would still be here.”

“Should I disobey my King? Besides, Bran knew that she would go. Have another drink. It’s no Dornish red, but I find the Northern wines to have a certain charm.”

“Every wine is charming when you’d had enough. Except mine, I suppose. Are you tired of it yet?”

“You are a man with a single-minded obsession, in the matter of our lanky friend. Did you entreat her to stay? Of course you did. And I am to take it, from her absence, that the conversation did not go well.”

“You could have put a rock to her face and struck off sparks, that is how well it went. She is headstrong, obstinate...”

“I had thought,” said Tyrion, carefully, “that was the appeal. You’ve never been much interested in women who give you what you want.”

Jaime contemplated his boots. “You’re right,” he said, after a moment. “She would not be Brienne if she kept away from a lost cause.”

“Ah,” said his brother. “I didn’t realize ... You’re that far gone?”

“Worse,” said Jaime.

In Winterfell, in winter, alone and restless and tense with a worry he could not let go, full of grief waiting for an object, Jaime paced the halls like a sorrowing and penitent ghost until Tyrion threatened to have Jaime’s leg cut off, too —

“— anything to stop the everlasting noise of you walking up and down.”

Jaime looked broken. “I didn’t tell her how I feel.”

“I am certain she knows.”

“I should have told her again,” said Jaime: and he went to the window to stare out it, across the wild and empty land.

At least he was sitting down now, and not wearing holes in the floor. Tyrion took his candle and returned to bed.

She arrived before the spring did, with bright roses in her cheeks. She had acquired a new scar on her arm from bandits and lost two toes to frostbite: and when she saw Jaime, she let out a choked and joyous laugh, let fall her sword to the ground, and stumbled to meet him for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> my phone went toes-up this week, so all writing that requires plot is on hiatus. Instead: fluff!
> 
> Jaime is making a pun about “wine” and “whine”, which maybe isn’t clear? I couldn’t find a way to make it obvious without belaboring the point.


End file.
